The Impaled Bride

by Rhiannon Frater

  The path ends at the edge of a stream, water splashing merrily over stones. Relief fills me when I observe sunlight flooding the woods on the opposite side. I maneuver across the stream, stepping on the bigger rocks so as not to soak my shoes. I arrive on the sun-drenched streamside to be greeted by the hum of insects and the song of birds.

  Sagging to the ground, I let out a cry of joy. I unknot the drawstrings and open the bag. Placing my hand through the opening, I fear for a moment that I will not find my sister. When my hand settles in her thick dark hair, my shoulders slump with relief.

  “What do you have there?” A masculine voice speaks in Magyar, startling me.

  Twisting about, I spot a man upon a boulder, staring at me. Sitting in the shade of a tree, he blended into his surroundings until he spoke. His craggy features make it difficult to determine his age and his clothing is ragged and dirty. He looks like a beggar, but I know from my journey that appearances can be deceiving.

  I yank the drawstrings taut and lower my hand so it rests close to the sheath hidden in the pleats of my skirt. “Nothing. Go away,” I retort.

  “Strange accent. All alone. Young. A runaway.” He says the words to himself, not me. Dirty fingers grip his knees as he rocks back and forth.

  “I am on a journey, not a runaway.”

  “Surprising nothing has eaten you yet.” He laughs without mirth. “Especially if you came from there.” He points to the murky woods.

  Slinging the bag over my shoulder, I ignore the man. I do not like his face or his manner. He reminds me of the men who came to our cottage late at night demanding my mother’s affections. I may not have her power to send him away, but I have two feet to carry me far from him. I face downstream and march along the burbling water.

  “What is in the bag?”

  I am shocked when fingers dig into my shoulder and whirl me about. Leering eyes peer down at me and rancid breath wafts over my face.

  “Nothing but berries. Find your own!”

  His broken nails dig into my flesh through my sleeve as he gazes down at me. Fear courses through my veins, cold and paralyzing.

  “Give me the bag,” he orders.

  “No!”

  Anger chases away the chill in my blood and I kick him in the shins. His hand grips the strap of the bag, attempting to wrench it off me. The fire of rage fills me, burning away the remains of my fears. I am infuriated that he dare rob me, a child, of all that I possess. Fueling my fury even more is my need to protect Ágota.

  “Give me the bag, or I’ll smash your brains against the rocks and take it anyway,” he threatens.

  “Release me, or you will regret it!” I smash my fists against him and strike his shins with the toe of my shoe.

  With a gleeful expression, he raises his walking stick over his head, intending to strike me. My hand flies to my waist. I draw my dagger and plunge the blade into his throat. It slides in easily, like a sharp knife piercing raw venison. Blood sprays into the air, splashing my hand and face. Shocked at my attack, he misses my head, hitting my shoulder instead. Pain nearly topples me, but I will not relent. I drag the blade free and thrust it into his flesh again. His hands find my neck as I strike over and over again. I do not stop until he falls to the ground, eyes growing hazy.

  Breathing heavily, I stare at the man and feel no remorse. Kicking the beggar over onto his back, I sink the blade into his chest and through his heart. I must make certain he is dead and unable to hurt me or my sister. My fury seeps away gradually as I stare at the man’s corpse. How rapidly he had brought about his demise. Only a few scant minutes have passed since I first saw him upon the boulder and now he lies dead at my feet. I drag the dagger free and stare at the blood slathered on the blade. The coppery scent trails on the breeze.

  Victorious, I breathe it in.

  Do I feel remorseful? Sad? Sickened?

  “No, I do not,” I answer aloud.

  Spinning about, I bend over the stream to wash the dagger, my hands, and my face. My wavering reflection reveals a young girl splattered in blood. My dark hair rests heavily on my shoulders and my golden eyes are stern and ruthless. The water sweeps the blood downstream, the red wisps swirling in the water.

  Once the dagger is returned to the sheath and my hands are clean, I open the bag and touch Ágota’s forehead. She’s warm to the touch and I feel her breath on my fingertips. Securing the bag once more, I wade into the water, crouch in the shallows, and wash my body and clothing. When I am done, I drink deeply and feel refreshed. The breeze shifts direction and the reek of death reaches my nose. It is time to move onward. I once again turn downstream and begin to walk.

  As I journey, I question my lack of remorse or disgust at my actions. Should I feel guilty for taking a life so easily? Should I feel any concern over how easy I killed? All my life I have been told stories of men fighting other men, monsters, and beasts to save those they love, but I do not recall them being guilt-ridden. Yet, my mother always told me life is precious and to be preserved at all costs.

  “I do not care,” I state aloud. “He deserved it. Why should I bother feeling anything at all for such a man?”

  I have always been the sister most like our mother, but now understand that a piece of me is like my father. He had been a warrior, a ruler, and merciless from the stories my mother told about him. I am not the gentle soul my mother had been. I may have her beauty and charm, but my strength lies in my ruthlessness.

  As the sun starts to sink below the trees, I make a small camp and build a fire, burning the tips of my fingers for I am very inexperienced. Ágota always starts our campfire with a snap of her fingers. I drag the bag to my side, open it, and reach past Ágota to pluck a loaf of bread from the magical depths. Nibbling at the dry crust, I watch the glorious beauty of the sunset. The sky is brilliant with orange and purple fire.

  The bag jolts abruptly to one side as a long, bony pale hand thrusts out. It flips over and Ágota’s fingers dig into the ground. I start to move to help her, but the sheath digs into my side and trepidation holds me back. She will be disappointed if she discovers what I have done. Ágota believes me to be her innocent mortal sister she must protect. If she recognizes that my heart is murderous and cold, will she love me less? I fear the answer.

  Another hand emerges, and, bit by bit, my sister drags herself free.

  Gasping, she lies on the grass and stares at me in disbelief.

  “Are you all right now?” I ask.

  “Yes, yes!” Ágota crawls toward me and grabs my face between her hands. Staring into my eyes, I feel as though she is examining my soul. I am afraid of what she sees until she says, “You are a brave, wonderful girl! You saved me from that thing!”

  “What was it, Agy?”

  “I do not know. It felt like the opposite of magic. It was draining me of power and life. I could not stop it. I thought I would die for certain.” She kisses my cheeks and gathers me in her arms. “You saved me!”

  “I could feel it watching me, but it never attacked.”

  “Perhaps it could only harm me because I am not mortal,” she answers thoughtfully. “To hurt you, it might have needed a host body, like a wolf.”

  “There were not any animals about.” I remember the man on the shore and wonder briefly if he was somehow possessed by the entity that had assaulted Ágota. He had acted peculiar. “I put you in the bag and followed a path out of that awful place.”

  Laughing with relief, Ágota rocks me in her arms. “Oh, my brilliant little sister, how brave you are! I am so proud of you! We are a formidable team, you and I! Nothing can stop us. Nothing!” She kisses my forehead again before rising to her feet to dance around the fire. “I can feel magic flooding into me! Restoring me! All because of you, my delightful little sister!”

  I resolve never to tell her that I killed to protect her. She is all that I have left in this world. I do not want to disappoint her, or worse yet, lose her love.

  “Come dance, Erjy! Dance with me!” Ágota c
alls out, her face almost pretty in her joyful reverie.

  As the sun becomes an ember on the horizon, I rise to my feet and join my sister in dance.

  “Do not weep. That was long ago,” Magdala’s voice whispers in my ear.

  The mausoleum shifts over my vision, returning me to my imprisonment. Magdala stands at my side, her hand on my cheek. Her dark eyes regard me with unexpected compassion. Disoriented, I struggle to free myself from the visions of the past while her fingers stroke my sunken cheek in an attempt to console me.

  “You were sobbing as you slept,” she continues. “Albrecht is not the one you killed. It was the man at the stream you struck through the heart.”

  Startled, I stare at her with dismay. “What did you say?”

  A compassionate expression shadows her face and understanding fills her dark eyes. “You were speaking as you slept. You spoke of saving your sister and killing a man at the stream with your rose dagger.”

  “The first of many,” I admit, unnerved that she knows one of my deepest of secrets. No wonder she is being so kind-hearted toward me. She feels sympathy for who I once was and has forgotten who I am now.

  “It must have been awful. You were but a child.”

  “No, it was not awful. It was liberating,” I reply.

  Her fingertips are warm as they still against my cheek. “How so?”

  “It was then I learned I am a killer by nature,” I answer, turn my head swifter than a viper, and sink my fangs into her wrist.

  Chapter 11

  The creak of the metal door announces the arrival of a guest in my mausoleum. Craning my neck, I watch the entrance in anticipation. Footsteps on the stairs resound in my small prison before falling silent. The flickering light cast by the low-burning torches refuses to illuminate my visitor.

  In hiding himself, Vlad has revealed his mood.

  This will not be pleasant.

  Yet, I can endure his sour presence for I am flush with blood and life and restored to my former self. The taste of blood, warm and coppery, lingers on my tongue, and I long for more even though I drank until gorged. The exhilaration of the hunt, the delight of the kill, and the pleasure of the feast are aspects of my nature that are denied by my entombment. My little interlude with Magdala has assuaged some of these longings, but if I were set free, I could easily consume a small village.

  Magdala’s body is draped over mine. I relish the last bit of warmth left in her flesh. I miss the heat of a human body and the pleasant memories it stirs within me of the many nights I slept beside my sister until Ágota finally ousted me from her bed. Those days are long gone and Magdala’s body is growing chill. I slip her small sewing shears under the folds of my dress before tossing her body onto the floor. The crack of her skull against the stone floor reverberates through the mausoleum.

  “I drank her to a husk,” I say aloud. “That is why you sent her, is it not? To make me presentable and beautiful? You cannot bear to see the results of my imprisonment even though you have done this to me.”

  “This is of your own doing,” a precious voice answers.

  “Cneajna,” I gasp, my freshly beating heart thrumming ever faster. I stretch out my hand to the patch of darkness. “Vlad has brought you to me at last.”

  Vlad Dracula’s power shifts the shadows to reveal his tall, muscular frame beside my other love’s lithe beauty. Cneajna’s face is dear to my heart. I drink in the beauty of her high arched brows, sapphire-blue eyes, delicate cheekbones, and lush mouth. It has been so long since I last beheld her beauty and my passion for her inflames my flesh. How I long to hold her close!

  While Vlad is formidable in black evening attire with a dark red vest under his long coat, Cneajna wears a shimmering white gown under a thick pale blue velvet cloak. With her golden hair arranged elegantly on her head in a mass of braids and curls, she resembles a modern aristocrat with her small, glittering tiara. In the castle, Vlad insists that his Brides dress as concubines. Therefore, her attire indicates that her status has been elevated in the absence of Lady Glynis Wright. Vlad only allows his current favorite Bride to wear modern clothing when accompanying him in public.

  Tilting her head upward to gaze at Vlad, she gives him a questioning look.

  He responds with a sharp nod.

  With a delighted smile upon her lips, Cneajna hurries to the bier in a rush of silken petticoats, the heels of her slippers tapping against the floor. Her gloved fingers grasp my hand and she leans over me. Eyes glittering with tears, she chokes back a sob.

  “Dearest Erzsébet,” she whispers before bending down to press her soft lips to mine.

  My mouth catches hers in an ardent kiss and the taste of her lips is as sweet as I remember.

  When we part, she presses her brow to mine, and whispers, “Beg for forgiveness and return to me. Let us be as we once were long ago.”

  I relish the feel of her delicate skin against mine, which only makes my refusal that much more difficult. I lament that I must deny her request for I do miss those nights when the three of us were united in our desire for blood, conquest, and each other. I touch the soft golden curls framing her face and my heart stutters. We’d spent so many years together, but now all is lost.

  “Erzsébet, please,” she begs.

  “I cannot,” I answer, my words hoarse with dismay.

  Drawing away, she pierces me with her fragile expression. “Erzsébet, why do you torment us? It has been long enough now. How much longer must you stand against our husband?”

  The powdery scent of her cosmetics reminds me of the many times we had carefully applied rouge and powder to each other’s faces since we lack a reflection. We had disguised our ethereal beauty in order to present a more human appearance to our prey before we ventured out to hunt among the wealthy of society. Cneajna is my weakness. Vlad knows this to be true. I can feel his gaze, heavy with consternation and hope. He believes she can break me. I will not bow to him.

  “Though I love you and miss you, my dearest, I must stand against him.”

  It wounds me to see the pain in her gaze, for in her estimation, I am the cause of my imprisonment, not Vlad. Despite my great efforts, she has never fully grasped why I set myself against Vlad. It grieves me that she regards me as the one who destroyed the life we once lived together. I doubt she will ever see the truth.

  “Why must you both be so stubborn? I miss you! Your absence weighs heavily on me! The castle feels so empty without you. Elina and Ariana are not like us. They are peasants. And that other one—that red-headed devil—betrayed me.” Cneajna’s loveliness gives way to a hard, fierce mask of anger, and she casts a baleful look in Vlad’s direction. “He wanted her. When I sensed that her rebelliousness would never abate, I warned him. Of course, he would not listen to my admonitions. I attempted to restrain her temperament, but failed.”

  “She is gone now,” I remind Cneajna, my fingers caressing her hand. “You are still at his side. You are the First.” The title means so much to her. She clings to it whenever one of Vlad’s new Brides becomes his favorite. Of course, most of them are stored in the walls of this mausoleum while she remains at his side. Despite his cruelty, he cannot quite bring himself to completely turn away from Cneajna.

  Taking my hand, she presses a kiss to my palm. “I wish for you to be at my side again. Ask his forgiveness. Be restored to your position.”

  I close my eyes so I will not witness her sorrow when I deny her appeal with a shake of my head. I cannot relent. I will not subjugate myself to Vlad. I fought for many years to be the master of my own life. Though I was willing to share it with Vlad, I was never inclined to be his slave.

  “Please, Erzsébet. How many years has it been? Have you not proven your point?”

  “What is my point?” I ask her.

  “To… to…” She flounders. “I am uncertain. I have never understood your defiance. You love him. You have said so, yet you refuse to return to his side.”

  With a weary sigh, I cradle her han
d against my bosom. “I would rather lie here than be his slave.”

  “Not his slave. His Bride.”

  My laughter is mocking.

  “It has been long enough,” she whispers. “Please.”

  “Never!”

  Anger coiled in his voice, Vlad says, “Cneajna, it is time to depart.”

  “A few minutes more,” she begs. “Vlad, you said I could visit with her.”

  “For a short time. Now it is over.” Vlad’s voice is low, clipped and cold. I can feel his anger burning against my skin. His presence fills the mausoleum like great dark wings.

  After another fervent kiss, Cneajna murmurs against my lips, “Do it for me. Return so I may not be alone. I love Elina and Ariana, but they are like daughters. I miss you at my side in the darkest moments of the night. Please, Erzsébet. Come home.”

  “Though I love and miss you with all my heart, I cannot,” I answer. “I will not.”

  Vlad draws close enough to take hold of Cneajna’s arm. “Come away. We are done here. As I told you, she will not be swayed.”

  He is lying. I can see it plainly. His words are a ploy, an effort to lay a burden of guilt upon me for abandoning Cneajna. He hopes that I will buckle to his whims after witnessing Cneajna’s despair. Just as he restored me by sending Magdala to bathe me, mend my dress, and become my victim, I suspect he did the same with Cneajna. How many times has Vlad starved Cneajna and the other Brides in the past few months? Shunted her and the others off to the side while he entertained himself with his Austrian princess? When did he restore her beauty and adorn her with modern clothes and jewels? Tonight? Is she just now restored to his good graces?

  She returns to his side, love and devotion radiating out of her like a golden glow as she gazes at him. I clench my hands at my sides until they bleed. The tenderness of his touch against her cheek when she steps into his embrace and the savage passion of his kiss against her mouth are deliberate temptations—a reminder of what we once shared and is now lost.